Catching On
by Flotation Device
Summary: Sheriff 'Stiles' Stilinski is just trying to solve a murder case, catch a mountain lion, get his friends to date, and raise his son (hopefully in one piece). [OR: No matter what universe Stiles is in, he's always the one figuring things out.] [OR: The one where everyone's age is flipped.]
1. Chapter 1

Don't think about it too hard.

* * *

The call comes in just after noon.

"Hello," he says, holding a bagel in one hand and a highlighter in the other, jabbing at the button to switch the call to speakerphone while sending disparaging looks at Deputy Riley, who is sitting at her desk outside and could have just as easily taken the call herself. Can she not see that he's in the middle of ten things at once? "This is the―" He chokes back a bite of bagel and cream cheese. "―the Sheriff speaking."

"Yes, Sheriff Stilinski," replies a man's voice. "This is Principal Keeley."

His stomach drops and he holds in a sigh, resting his forehead against the back of his hand and probably getting cream cheese in his hair. "Principal Keeley, yes, of course. How can I help you?"

"Well, it seems we've had a bit of an incident here at the school involving your son."

"What kind of 'incident'?" he asks, putting as much emphasis as he can on the word while resisting the urge to literally hold his fingers up in quotations. His hands are kind of full anyway.

"A fight."

"A fight," he repeats dully.

"Yes, in the boy's locker room, with a couple of the other students. I'm sorry to interrupt you in the middle of your day―" He rolls his eyes. "―but I was hoping you might be able to come down and help us sort this out in person."

"Yeah, of course," he says. "Yeah, I can be there in fifteen minutes."

Which is how Sheriff Stilinski finds himself at Beacon Hills High School at a quarter past noon on a Tuesday in late September, wearing a uniform and a frown and holding matching paper Starbucks cups. He has a feeling he knows exactly who else he's going to find when he gets inside, and he also knows exactly how she takes her coffee.

He's not wrong.

"For me?" Allison says, smiling wide as he passes her her cup. "Stiles, you shouldn't have."

He waves her off. "So what's the word?" he asks, sitting down on the bench beside her.

She hums, sipping at her coffee. Milk, no sugar. "In the beginning was the Word," she says pensively. "And the Word was with God. God, in this case, being Principal Keeley." She winks. "And the Word was that my kid and your kid beat the shit out of some other kid," she says, taking another sip of her coffee. "Or so they say."

"Hearsay is a dangerous thing, Argent," he says, taking a sip of his own drink. Tea; chamomile. Sheriff Stilinski is not a man who benefits from caffeine in the afternoon.

"Isn't it just," she agrees, smiling prettily. "So now, we wait."

Not long, as it turns out, because five minutes later the door to the office opens and they are ushered inside by a harried, grandmotherly receptionist with blue hair and two strings of fake pearls around her neck. Inside the office: Principal Keeley, grim, humourless, and dull as dishwater; Chris Argent, tall, handsome, and petulant, with a rapidly bruising right eye; and one Jack Stilinski, looking a little bit defiant, a little bit uncomfortable, and mostly like he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands. It's a set-up that doesn't bode well, and the conversation that follows doesn't disappoint.

"So what you're saying is," Stiles says incredulously, leaning forwards and squinting. "Chris and Jack here―" He flaps his hand in their direction. "―not only _beat up_ a senior lacrosse player, they also tore a _sink_ straight out of the _wall_. And―what else?"

"Upended a row of lockers," Allison adds sagely.

"Upended a row of lockers, yeah. With their bare hands." Stiles catches his son's eye and raises his eyebrows. Jack shrugs and shakes his head.

"That is what appears to have happened, yes," says Keeley somewhat uncomfortably.

Stiles frowns. "Their bare, human hands. Made of flesh. And bone. That can probably bench press―what? A hundred and fifty pounds?"

"One eighty," Chris mumbles.

"Okay, Chris?" Stiles snaps, turning towards him in irritation. "Not right now."

He sees Jack fighting a smile, and shoots him a sharp look. Yes, on the one hand, the situation is hilarious, but on the other, it is _so not funny Jack control yourself._

"Who were the other students involved?" Allison cuts in. To the untrained eye she would look pleasant and relaxed, with her legs crossed and her coffee balanced on her knee, a dimple pressing into her cheek. Stiles sees the familiar edge in her smile and knows better.

"Peter and Nathan Hale."

Stiles lets out a sigh. Of course they're fucking Hales.

"And where are they now?" Allison asks mildly, casting her eyes about to indicate their absence from the room.

"Their parents took them home about half an hour ago. One of them, Nathan, was quite badly hurt." Chris scoffs loudly. Jack shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling as though pleading for an end to the injustice.

"I'm sure he was," Allison murmurs, in a tone that conveys her unequivocal disbelief. Stiles has got to hand it to her. He's never liked the Hales himself, for a myriad of reason, most of which start with the letter D and end with the letter K; but Allison takes the vendetta to the next level. He's not entirely sure why, of course, but he loves it.

"So what's the procedure, here, Principal Keeley? How is this all going to shake out?" His leg is bouncing up and down and he can't quite make it stop, but he also can't quite bring himself to care. Apparently, he also can't control his big, fat mouth. "And can we maybe hop to it, please? Crime doesn't stop itself."

* * *

" _So then what happened_?" Scott asks, his voice slightly fuzzy on the phone.

Stiles grunts noncommittally, unscrewing a bottle of olive oil with slightly more force than strictly necessary and pouring a generous amount into a pan. "Three days' suspension."

Scott laughs. " _Man, you need to learn to keep your mouth shut_."

"Come on. This guy calls me in from my _job_ ―where I _work_ , Scotty, okay, serving and protecting―to tell me some bullshit story about how my son pulled a row of bolted lockers out of the ground? Does he not realize I'm a licensed detective? Give me a break _._ "

" _He_ was _in a fight, though_ ," Scott says, putting on his reasonable voice. Stiles scoffs.

"Yeah, whatever, we got in fights all the time. But I remember the other little assholes getting in trouble too. And I _really_ don't remember any locker room disagreements ever leading to thousands of dollars worth of property damage. I mean, I like to brag about my kid as much as the next guy, but even I know Jack can't tear plumbing out of the wall."

" _That_ is _weird_ ," Scott muses. Stiles hears barking in the background as Scott checks on the animals for the night. " _You didn't even see these kids_?"

"The Hales? Nah. Apparently they were _too injured_ to sit down in a fucking office for five minutes, boo hoo."

" _You talk to Jack about it yet_?"

"He's doing his homework, cooling off. I can't decide if I'm furious or proud of him. I guess both. Honestly, I hope he broke Peter Hale's fucking nose."

Scott laughs. " _Serve and protect, huh_?"

"Only when the citizen in question isn't a prick."

" _He's just a kid, Stiles_."

"Yeah, which is why I said nose, not leg. Or spine."

" _No wonder you got elected Sheriff, you're such a humanitarian_."

"I'm still not actually sure how that happened." The front door creaks open, and Melissa McCall appears in the hallway. "Oh, hey, it's your offspring―hi, Melissa."

"Hey, Sheriff," she says, smiling wryly. Her hair's pulled up in a ponytail, and she's wearing a _BHHS Socce_ r sweatshirt. "Jack here?"

"In his room. Say hi to your daddy, sweetheart," he says, holding the phone in her direction. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and smiles. "Hey, _papi_."

" _Hey, bean_ ," Scott calls, his voice tinny through the microphone. " _You have a good day today?_ "

"Wonderful," she says, raising her eyes in exaggeration. "You?"

"We were just catching up," Stiles says, scooping a chopped onion into the pot. Melissa shakes her head.

"Why don't you two just get married already? Honestly."

"But the clandestine affair is so much more fun."

" _What was that?_ " Scott asks.

"Nothing, dearest," Stiles singsongs. "Although I think your daughter's onto us."

"Who's having an affair?" says his son's voice, and then there's Jack, standing in the kitchen in sweatpants and bare feet, squinting against the kitchen light like it's the setting desert sun. For the thousandth time, Stiles reminds himself to take him to the optometrist.

"Our fathers, who else," Melissa says mildly, shrugging out of her hoodie and throwing it over the back of a chair.

"Uh, no offense dad, but it's not a secret if everyone knows about it."

"The youth these days," he says into the receiver, shaking his head. "No respect. Can't you two see that I am literally trying to put food on the table here?"

Melissa rolls her eyes again, grabs an apple in one hand and Jack in the other, and disappears up the stairs.

"Speaking of clandestine affairs," he starts, grabbing a couple of tomatoes and getting to chopping. "Guess who I saw today."

" _Stiles, I told you to leave it alone. Besides, I'm not_ ―" Scott lowers his voice to a hiss. " _I'm not having an affair!_ "

"Yeah, but you _like_ her," Stiles says, drawing out the 'like' like a third grader.

" _How are you considered a legal adult?_ " Scott snaps. " _Anyway, is she_ ― _did she_ ― _I mean, did she seem good to you?_ "

"You could ask her yourself, if you weren't suffering under some kind of misguided self-quarantine. _Now_ who's the real adult?"

" _Still me_ ," Scott says flatly. " _If I can't control myself around her, then I can't be around her. It's that simple_."

"I mean, I'm no expert on love," Stiles starts. (Scott snorts. He ignores him.) "But that is _some_ bullshit."

" _Whatever_ ," Scott says goodnaturedly. " _Anyway, I'm getting in the car._ "

"You need to stop working these hours, man. You're a vet, not a trauma surgeon."

" _Ha, ha. Talk to you later?_ "

"You got it, buddy. Hey, drive safe."

* * *

As it happens, Scott fails to take his platitude to heart, which is how Sheriff Stilinski ends up out in North Beacon Hills at ten o'clock at night, marveling over the comparative wreck of Scott's car in contrast with the decidedly non-wrecked man himself. He's a little banged up, and he's got dried blood on his face from where his head had hit the window, but considering the fact that his Toyota has actually wrapped itself around a tree, Stiles thinks he's in pretty good shape.

"So what did you say this thing was? A mountain lion?"

"That's what it looked like, yeah," Scott says faintly, fiddling with his inhaler. His face looks drawn and confused in the flashing blue and red light of the squad cars.

"That's weird, right?" he says, looking out at the other deputies. "That it came this far into town. That's unusual."

"We'll tell people to keep an eye out," says Deputy Riley, looking critically at the skid marks on the pavement.

"Actually," says Scott slowly. "You know, it's funny. It looked almost like a wolf."

Out of the corner of his eye, over by the smoking remains of Scott's car, he sees Deputy Hale freeze. "Hale? Did you find something?"

"Did you say a wolf?" The deputy demands instead, standing up to fix his gaze on them. His mouth is drawn into a stern line, and his eyes seem to pierce through the dark.

"Yeah," Scott says slowly. "But that's impossible. There haven't been any wolves in California in…"

"Over a hundred years, yeah, I know," Stiles says, running a hand over his head. "Well, whatever the hell it was, we're not finding it in the dark. You're okay, everyone's okay, let's get this sealed off and clean up the mess in the morning, yeah? Come on, man, I'll drive you home."

Still, as the other deputies get to setting up the traffic cones, Deputy Hale stays by the car, running his hand over the hood, his back ramrod straight, sniffing as though he has a cold. Beneath his hand, against the twisted metal, Stiles can see flecks of blood. And are those...scratch marks?

As though he can hear his thoughts, Derek looks up, fixing him with a cold stare.

Stiles scowls. He fucking hates that guy.

* * *

Don't worry, there is a Teen Wolf in there. It's just not Scott McCall. WhO cOuLd It BeEeEe. Anyway, fav/review!


	2. Chapter 2

And away we go.

* * *

The next morning dawns bright and cool and finds Stiles supervising the towing of Scott's car, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wishing the entire world would just go back to bed. He doesn't really need to be there―he could have just sent a deputy to deal with it (maybe Hale, just to rile him up), but he appreciates the chance to be somewhere that is neither his home, nor the station. Stretch his legs a bit. Clear his head. Freak car accidents and high school disciplinary meetings aside, it's been sort of a rough couple of weeks.

Two weekends ago, a jogger had found a dead body in the reserve. Well―half a body. Which was worse, because, first of all, _wow_ , ew, and secondly, without a face, dental records, or a missing persons report to help them. they had had no way of identifying the body. Then, as if that hadn't been disturbing enough, last Saturday the body had just disappeared from the morgue overnight without leaving a trace. So now on top of a damn gruesome murder, Stiles is apparently also dealing with some kind of master thief bodysnatcher.

He is snapped out of his reverie by a door slamming across the street and the sound of quick footsteps on a driveway. "Excuse me?" calls an irritated and unmistakeable voice, and Stiles starts, looking around the neighborhood as though he's never seen it before. _Of course._ Last night it had been so dark―and he'd been so worried. He hadn't even noticed. He closes his eyes, gathers up his courage, and spins around to face her.

"Lydia!" he calls, trying for a smile. He's not entirely sure he succeeds. "What brings you here?" Internally, he winces.

She shows no mercy.

"What _brings_ me here?" she calls incredulously, before looking both ways and marching across the street. "I live here, moron. Here's a better question: what brings _you_ here at _seven_ in the _morning_ with metal cutters and bulldozers and everything― _else_?" She demands, snapping her feet together and waving her arm in irritation at the hubbub surrounding Scott's car.

"Car accident," he says brightly, and she scowls.

There's something magical about Lydia Martin. He's a grown-ass man, who's been married and has a degree and a job and crow's feet and a teenage son, for God's sake, and yet just by standing in front of him she makes him feel seventeen again. At forty-four her hair's a little darker and a little shorter, and her face is a little bit thinner; but after all these years, she still always leaves him feeling a bit starstruck. She flips her hair, and he fights back a smile.

"You crashed your car?" she says haughtily, narrowing her eyes at him. He narrows his right back.

"Uh, _no_ , Scott crashed his car."

"Is there a difference?" she asks coolly, and he bristles. Oh, yeah―she also still drives him up the fucking wall.

"Only if you ask insurance," he snaps. "By the way, is there a reason you're out here other than to yell at me? Because I'm at work right now. Yeah, this is my _job_? I have shit to do."

She snorts. "I'm sorry, _Sheriff._ Clearly you're _super_ busy." She looks him up and down, raising her eyebrows. "Hm, the khaki suits you."

"Really?" he says critically, looking down at himself.

"No," she breathes, pursing her lips.

"Wow, rude. You know, I've been trying to get them changed to navy? But apparently a new batch of uniforms is completely beyond the capabilities of the department."

"Not surprising, considering their staff."

" _Ouch_. You wound me. Really."

She brings her hands up to rub at her arms before tugging her robe closed, crossing her arms over it. It's silk, and completely useless at keeping out the chill.

"Here," he says gently, handing her his travel mug. She gives him a funny look, takes a sip, and recoils in surprise.

"Is this hot chocolate?" she demands, licking her lips and frowning at him.

"Bite me, okay? I deserve the pick-me-up."

"You're such a child," she says, shaking her head and taking another sip to hide her smile. It doesn't work.

"Well, if it's such a disappointment to you, you can just give it back," he says, making as though to take it from her. She steps neatly out of his way.

"Hm, I don't think so. I've appropriated it."

"Fine, but don't think I'm not writing you up for this," he grumbles, and winks at her. This time she smiles outright. "Where's Natalie?" he asks, nodding up at her house. It's more of mansion, really, with white walls, big windows, and a perfectly landscaped yard, complete with a long circular driveway and a minimalist fountain.

"Getting ready for school," she replies evenly, warming her fingers against the mug in her hands.

"School doesn't start for another hour."

"How do you think I always looked so good?"

"I guess I never really thought about it. I think I just sort of assumed girls like you naturally looked perfect. Or that you'd made a pact with the devil, or something."

She rolls her eyes fondly. "Boys," she says, and he snickers. So yeah, he could have sent Hale. But, he thinks, trading his mug back and forth with _Lydia Martin_ and talking about their kids and the weather and their favourite moon landing conspiracy theories, the morning really could have gone worse.

* * *

And the good feeling holds, until the Sheriff's office gets a call about another body.

This one is in one piece, at least, but the man has been slashed so badly that his face barely looks human. The body's been―well, _mauled_ , is the only word for it, and left just a few yards into the woods on the side of the highway. After the crime scene's been inspected and photographed and taped off, the only thing to do is get a consultation on what the hell happened to the guy.

He texts Jack to let him knows he'll be late coming home, again, and then pushes through into Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic, nodding at the deputies at the door. Scott's in the examination room, wearing a lab coat and a frown and talking to the guys who brought the body in. The body, which is now lying on the examination table and, more importantly, covered with a sheet.

Scott had used to make fun of him for being so squeamish around blood.

It's less funny now.

Just then, Scott's assistant, a teenager Stiles has met before but whose name he can never really remember―Dalton? Dawson? No, Deaton, Alvin Deaton, that's it―emerges from the back room. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene, moving from Stiles himself, to the body, to the paramedics and Scott, and finally back to the body.

"Oh, right, Alan," Scott says, starting towards him. _Alan_. Right. "Good, you're done."

"What's going on, Dr. McCall?" he asks, words slow and measured. Scott puts his hands on his shoulders and steers him out of the room, talking to him in a low voice, before returning a moment later looking grim.

"Okay, let's do it," he says, and without further ceremony uncovers the body. Stiles looks away quickly, biting on his knuckles, before glancing back out of the corner of his eye. Scott is leaning over the table, looking carefully at the man's chest and face and the deep gashes marring them.

"These are definitely claw marks," he says at length. "And this, here―this was done with teeth. It was an animal attack."

"What kind of animal?" Stiles asks, already knowing the answer.

"I mean," Scott begins, squinting. "The coroner could find something else, but my best guess would be―well, a mountain lion."

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face.

"Could a mountain lion really do that much damage?" asks one of the paramedics, staring as though transfixed at the remains of the man's face.

"It's unusual," Scott admits, tipping his head in agreement. "But there's really nothing else big enough in this area. Unless someone's pet lion has gotten loose or something, I don't know what else it could be."

"What about a wolf?" Stiles asks, drawing his eyebrows together.

"I mean, I guess," Scott says slowly. "Maybe. If there were any wolves in California. Which―"

"There aren't, yeah, I know."

He frowns, hazarding another glance at the body and feeling nausea welling up in his chest. Yeah, he's definitely not about the laceration. Or the evisceration.

"Do we know who it is yet?" Scott asks, grabbing the sheet and moving to cover the body back up.

"No," Stiles says heavily. "He had no ID. And as far as we know, no one's looking for him. Haven't gone through dental records yet, either."

"Damn," Scott says, pulling his gloves off with a snap and tossing them into the disposal.

Damn, Stiles thinks, sums the situation up nicely.

* * *

By the time he gets home it's past eleven o'clock. The house is dark and quiet and comforting, and he takes his time putting away his shoes and coat. Jack has made dinner, or tried to, anyway, and left some on the stove for him―mac and cheese. He smiles, thinking they're gonna have to go over the four food groups again sometime soon, before pouring himself a glass of water and heading upstairs.

The door to his son's room is cracked open, and yellow light spills out into the hallway, glancing off the picture frames on the wall. He knocks quickly before pushing his way in, and finds his kid lying on his stomach on his bed, watching _Breaking Bad._

"Hey," he says, and Jack starts, scrambling to pull his earbuds out of his ears.

"Hey, dad," he replies, pressing pause and pulling himself up to sit cross-legged. "What's up?"

"I'm going to assume you're not very busy right now," Stiles says, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down heavily. His feet ache. His head hurts. It's been a long day.

"Long day?" Jack asks, and Stiles barks out a laugh.

"Yeah," he says, setting his glass on the desk so that he can run his hands over his head. "Yeah, it's been a day. A day and a half, really. They found another body."

Jack winces. "What happened?"

"Isn't that just the million dollar question? Looks like an animal attack, but―well, anyway, it's not really important right now." He sighs. "I know we're supposed to talk about what happened at school yesterday, but I'm honestly too tired. That might technically make me a bad father, or whatever, but if we try to have a disciplinary conversation I'm just gonna fall asleep. Seriously."

Jack nods slowly, squinting and running his hand over his hair. It's sandier than Stiles' is, and longer than he kept it at that age. He looks more like his mother, really; less skinny than Stiles, less pale. More sure of himself. Better at lacrosse, too.

"Just tell me one thing―you didn't break Peter Hale's nose, did you?"

Jack tilts his head hesitantly. "Um, no."

"Damn," Stiles says, and Jack laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Why not?" He demands, and Jack laughs harder. "No, seriously, what's wrong with you? If you had any hope of forgiveness, that was it."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jack says, voice shaking with mirth. "I'm a disappointment, I know."

"Well, you didn't end up with a shiner, either, so that's something," Stiles says, pointing at his eye. "How's Chris looking?"

"Like a raccoon, but the girls seems to dig it."

Stiles sighs. "To be young and stupid," he says wistfully, before heaving himself up off the chair. "Anyway, I'm dead on my feet. I'm going to nourish myself and then sleep. We'll talk for real tomorrow, yeah? It's not like you have anywhere else to be," he adds, throwing his son a look.

"Yeah," Jack replies quietly, sliding back down onto his stomach. "Goodnight, dad."

"Night, Jacky. Sleep tight."

And he really is exhausted―like, out-of-his-mind, walking dead tired―which is why it's so frustrating that after he's choked down some amateur mac and cheese, wiped down the kitchen, brushed his teeth and thrown himself into bed, he just can't seem to get to sleep.

Insomnia isn't new to him, but it never really gets easier.

He rolls over, readjusting his pillow. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the bodies: the woman's, just legs and feet and hips and what looks like the bottom of a tattoo, and the man's, torn open from the abdomen to the neck, facial features torn off like some kind of deranged scratch'n win.

The facts spin around in his mind's eye. There should be no reason to even suspect that the deaths are related, aside from the coincidence of timing; yet he can't shake the feeling that they have something to do with one another. He repeats it to himself, like a story: a body is found in the woods. A woman is cut in half and her body is found in the woods. A body is stolen from the morgue. Nobody looks for a missing woman, and her body is stolen overnight. A man is found on the side of the road. A body is found on the side of the road, just inside the forest, mauled by an animal. Scott hits an animal and crashes his car into a tree. A man is mauled by an animal, but there are no wolves in California. A man is mauled by a mountain lion, and his body is found in the woods. A man and a woman are found in the woods.

What's missing?

Derek Hale, running his hand along Scott's ruined Toyota, feeling the scratch marks. Scratch marks on Scott's metal car. Claws tearing through a Toyota's hood. Deputy Hale sniffing at the air. _It looked almost like a wolf. Did you say a wolf?_ There are no wolves in California. Derek's face when they brought the woman's body in. His eyes; wide, unmoving. His eyes on her back. A woman with a spiral tattoo is cut in half. A man wanders into the woods and is found by the side of the road. A man is mauled by a mountain lion.

And no matter what turn his thoughts take, for some reason, this is the thought he keeps coming back to:

 _There are no wolves in California._

 _There are no wolves in California._

 _There are no wolves in California._

* * *

Oooh, the plot thickens. Don't forget to fave/review!


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, dad? I'm going out."

"Yeah, sure," he mutters, poring over a set of photographs on the table and comparing them to the file in his hand. It takes him a minute to process the words. "Wait, what?"

"I'm going out," Jack says, jogging down the stairs and pulling on a jacket.

"Where?" he asks dumbly, looking at the clock, which reads ten. "It's Thursday."

"I told you about it. Ryan's having a party. You know, Ryan? From lacrosse?"

"Right, right," he says, not remembering at all. "On a Thursday," he repeats, and wonders when he became this uncool.

"Yeah. It's not like I'm not going to school tomorrow anyway." Jack freezes and closes his eyes, as though willing the words back into his mouth. "Is that okay?" he asks anxiously.

"Uh, yeah, I guess. We need to have that talk though, buddy."

"Yeah, I know." Jack shifts his weight, uncharacteristically nervous, pulling on his sleeves. He's been jittery all night, actually, tapping his feet, dropping dishes―basically, behaving too much like Stiles and entirely unlike himself. "But you were gone all day..."

This, Stiles guiltily admits, is true. While Jack had (presumably) been sitting at home all day, maybe studying, maybe dying of boredom, maybe receiving texts containing Chris Argent's last words (because he's met Allison and her husband, and he can pretty much guarantee that the kid is suffering right now), Stiles had been at work from dawn until dusk. Not to mention that suspension from school had meant suspension from the first lacrosse game of the season, which had to have hurt. And while a more responsible parent would have probably just grounded the kid and been done with it, Stiles has always struggled with following the rules.

"You need the Jeep?" Jack nods, half a smile on his face, and Stiles fishes the keys out of his pocket, tossing them across the table. Jack snatches them out of the air and shoves them in his jacket pocket. "Is Melissa going?" he adds slyly, and delights in watching the panic on his son's face.

It's worth having kids, he thinks, just to see them squirm.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Of course. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," he says, leaning back and grinning.

Jack shakes his head and turns away, going to put his shoes on.

"Be back by one, yeah? I'm a cool dad, and everything, okay, but not an absentee. And also you're technically in trouble, so try not to have too much fun. And also, I feel it's my duty to remind you that underage drinking is very illegal, but call me if you need me to come get you, okay, I don't need my own son getting picked up for a DUI. Deal?"

"Got it, see you!" he calls, before slamming the door shut on his way out.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and sighs, turning back to the papers strewn across the dining room table. It's like this:

The official autopsy for their John Doe had come in and, yeah, the dude was definitely killed by an animal attack two nights ago. (To the surprise of no one at all, although Deputy Hale had kind of scowled when they had said the words 'mountain lion', but he's an asshole, so.) So with the only question that Stiles _did_ have an answer to definitively cleared up, he is left to answer the hard ones.

Namely: who the hell even was the guy? What was he doing out in the Preserve in the middle of the night? Why didn't he have any ID on him? Who even gets mauled to death by wild animals anymore, anyway?

"I mean come on," he says later, on the phone with Scott. "It's the goddamn twenty-first century. We live in California, not, like, the Australian Outback. Man against nature is _so_ eighteen-hundreds."

" _What are you even talking about?_ " Scott asks distractedly on the other end of the line.

"Whatever. And you're still sticking with the mountain lion story?"

" _Um, yeah?_ "

"Okay," he says doubtfully.

" _What do you_ ― _God, Stiles, why do you have to treat everything like it's some kind of conspiracy? This guy clearly got lost in the woods, tangled with a cougar, and came out worse for wear, alright? It sucks_ ―"

"It was super disturbing, actually―"

" _Yeah, but it_ happens _. There's no mystery here, I promise._ "

Stiles sighs. "Yeah, okay."

" _I'm serious, Stiles, you have to let this one go. Loosen up a bit, okay? Speaking of which, I can't believe you let Jack go out tonight._ "

"What? Why? You let Melissa go, didn't you?"

" _Yeah, but Mel isn't on academic suspension._ "

"Whatever, okay? My son has been convicted unjustly. The judge was corrupt. The courts have failed him. He deserves a bit of light in his life, a little fun, letting the good times roll at―where are they again?"

" _Colin's house_."

"You sure?"

" _Yeah, that's what Melissa said_."

"Okay, yeah, Colin's house. I gave him a curfew, I gave him the drunk driving talk, what do you want from me?"

On the other end, Scott just laughs.

* * *

At two thirty in the morning, he's woken up by the phone ringing.

He startles up off the couch and knocks over an empty cereal bowl, clearing his throat before croaking out a groggy: "Yeah?"

"Hi, Stiles," says Allison, sounding perfectly calm, as though it is not, in fact, the middle of the night. "Did I wake you up?"

"What, me?" he blusters, rubbing his knuckle into the corners of his eyes. "Be real, I never sleep."

"Well, sorry, in any case," she says warmly. "But I think I've found something that belongs to you."

As it happens, that 'something' turns out to be his teenage son. Fifteen minutes later finds him seated in Allison's living room, sipping on a mug of tea and staring Chris and Jack down from across the room. Allison sits next to him; he husband hovers near the door, flexing his hands in agitation. The house, of course, is beautiful; they'd spent three months renovating it before they'd finally moved into town. The atmosphere, however, is less pleasant; the air is thick with tension, and their words sounds strained and brittle against the silence from the rest of the house. He notices that Allison and Laurent are carefully avoiding each other's eyes; sees the edge in Allison's stare, the hard set of her teeth behind her smile.

He clears his throat.

"So did I, or did I not, tell you to be back by one," he says loudly, fixing his son with a look which he hopes conveys his profound irritation. Jack squirms and looks away. "Because I'm pretty sure I did."

"I can't believe you let him go out at all," Allison says evenly. "Because we certainly didn't let ours."

"Chris, there are rules in this house," Laurent chimes in from the corner. "And you are damn well expected to follow them."

"I shouldn't even _be_ grounded," Chris spits out, sinking down further into his seat.

"This is nota democracy," his father retorts sharply, and crosses his arms across his chest.

"The hell were you doing out in the woods in the first place?" Stiles demands. "That's nowhere near―what's his name?―Colin's house."

"Ryan's house," Jack corrects quietly, and Stiles frowns.

"Uh―right. Sure. Ryan's house. So why the preserve?"

Both boys just sort of shrug, shifting and looking uncomfortable. "We got lost," Chris offers half-heartedly, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Yes, thank you, obviously you got lost in the woods."

"That's not what we're asking," Laurent says loudly.

"How long would you have been out there if your father hadn't found you? It's dangerous to just go wandering around at night," Allison adds coolly. "Seriously, and after that man they found yesterday, too?"

Stiles thinks about the mangled corpse for a moment and winces, before snapping back to the matter at hand. "Yeah, what if you hadn't run into Mr. Fortier, huh? You'd probably still be out there, wouldn't you? Come _on_ , you guys. By the way, Laurent, what were you doing out in the middle of the night?" Stiles asks suddenly, twisting to look at him.

Laurent shifts his weight before replying decisively: "Testing some new tracking technology with an interested private buyer."

"Right," Stiles says slowly, and he sees Chris and Jack exchange a look to his right. "What kind of technology?"

"It's a bit complicated, I don't want to bore you," Laurent replies, the soft hint of an accent on the ends of his words. "But I'd be happy to show you another day. Right now I'd like to get this done with. It's late, Sheriff."

"Yup, totally," Stiles says, swallowing back a retort and turning back to his son. On his other side, Allison purses her lips and glares holes into the wall. "Alright, so just to clarify―your story is, you were at this kid Ryan's party and you got bored, so you decided to drive over to the Reserve and take a moonlit walk through the forest, because what else would a couple of sixteen year olds on academic suspension be doing with their Thursday night, right? Then you got _lost_ , dazzled by the breathtaking beauty of the full moon, probably―" He sees Allison raise a hand to her face to cover her smile, and hears his voice rising. "―and proceeded to wander into the forest for another two hours, failing to call for help or otherwise in any way indicate your distress, until you happened to run into Laurent and his, uh, business associates. That sound about right to you?"

"Yeah," they respond meekly, glancing at each other. Really, they do look like they'd been wandering the forest for ages; they have scratches on their hands and faces, and Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks he can see a leaf stuck to the side of Chris's head.

"Bullshit," Laurent spits, and Stiles kind of agrees.

"And wasn't Melissa supposed to be at that party? What'd you do with her?"

"What did we―we didn't _do_ anything with her," Jack splutters indignantly, narrowing his eyes. "We dropped her off at home. She was feeling sick."

"Well, at least our sons are gentlemen," Stiles says sarcastically, getting to his feet. "Allison, Laurent, I'm sorry that we have the least considerate kids on the West Coast, but I'm pretty sure that that's all we're getting out of them tonight. Also I'm about to pass out, so we can talk more about this later, yeah?"

He wishes them good night, kissing Allison on the cheek and nodding awkwardly at Laurent, who has poured himself a whiskey and thrown himself into an armchair, before grabbing his son by the shoulder and steering him out the door.

In the car, Jack is even quieter than usual.

"Look," Stiles says, before pausing, stumbling over what he wants to say next. Jack stares out the window, his face unreadable. "Uh, do you remember where you put the Jeep, at least?"

"Yeah," Jack replies, producing the keys from his pocket and swinging them around his finger once.

"Good," Stiles says awkwardly. "Good, yeah, we'll―we'll go get it in the morning then, before work."

They drive in silence for a few more minutes, before Stiles sighs, biting the bullet. "Hey, Jack," he says softly. "I'm sorry about―all of that. I'm just really tired, buddy. This whole thing caught me off guard, okay?"

"Thanks," Jack mumbles, not looking at him.

"And I don't want this to be like a thing where I'm furious, and you're furious at me for being angry, and I punish you and we leave it at that, okay? I want to not be angry at you. But seriously, man, what the hell? This isn't like you." He throws a glance into the rearview mirror before turning onto their street, moving slowly past familiar house. "It seems kind of like me, actually, which is a bad thing. I was a terrible teenager." He expects Jack to laugh and glances over at him, but his son is still wearing the same inscrutable expression. "Like yeah, shit happens, fights happen, teenagers lie to their parents, it's normal, blah blah, but―this has been a crazy couple of days. Suspension? Wandering around the woods in the middle of the night?"

He pulls into their driveway and switches the engine off. The silence settles around them like a blanket. "Jack―hey," he says, nudging him until he looks over. "All I'm saying is, I don't want you to have to lie to me, okay?"

It's dark, but Jack meets his eyes, a hint of misery edging into his expression before he attempts half a smile. "Yeah, dad. Okay. Thanks."

Stiles claps a hand onto his shoulder. "Good. Alright, fair warning, I might yell at you some more tomorrow, but I've got work in the morning and I'm exhausted. So move it, kid, it's bedtime."

* * *

The next day, Stiles can't help but notice that Derek isn't at the game.

"All I'm saying is―" Stiles yells as the crowd around them boos. "If my daughter was playing her first game of the season, I would fucking _be_ there. Hell, Melissa isn't even my daughter, and yet―" He spreads his arms wide, nearly whacking the woman next to him in the face. "―here I am."

"Yeah, okay, you're a real inspiration," Scott throws back, clapping as one of the girls makes a phenomenal pass.

"I am going above and beyond the duties of an emergency contact. And he calls himself a parent?"

"I mean, you'd probably have to kill me to miss one of these things, but, hey, he probably has a good reason. Seriously, Stiles, why do you always have to keep tabs―Oh my god! Oh my god, Melissa has the ball, look!"

The crowd is going wild (or, well, it would be, if it was the kind of crowd that the boys' lacrosse team usually draws, but mostly it's just moms and kids that are too young to be home alone on a Friday evening) as Melissa streaks down the field. And seriously, the girl is on fire tonight―she sails past the midfielders, gets through the defense by sliding the ball right between another girl's feet, and then quick as a flash she's spun around and is letting loose a kick that lands the ball right in the corner of the net. Scott cheers like a madman and Stiles whoops as her teammates pull her into a hug.

By the end of the game, Melissa has scored three goals, and Stiles' hands are sore from clapping.

"Scotty, my man," he says, waiting by the bleachers with Scott as the teams high five each other and wait for their gatorade. "Mel's gotten _really_ good."

"I know," Scott says, a huge grin stretching across his face. "I mean, I always think she's perfect, but she's really gotten better. She practiced a lot this summer."

"Looks like it paid off," Stiles says, feelings his own face pulling into a grin as she jogs towards them, her hair flipping back and forth. Scott immediately pulls her into a big hug; Stiles pulls on her ponytail and winks at her.

"That was amazing!" Scott half-shouts, smiling so hard his eyes are barely visible. "You were unbelievable!"

"Really?" she asks, grinning back them, her forehead damp and her cheeks flushed. Little wisps of hair curl at her temples and her ears, and her eyes shine bright against the floodlights illuminating the field. Stiles obviously knows Scott's a good-looking guy, but in that moment he is sure that his daughter is literally the prettiest fifteen-year-old in the history of Beacon Hills, and feels ready to fight anyone who says otherwise. His heart swells.

"Melissa," he says. "You were straight up out of this _world_. Seriously, that should be illegal. I would know."

"Are you okay, though?" Scott asks, suddenly frowning in worry. "You looked like you were gonna be sick at half time."

"Oh, yeah," Melissa says, some strange expression passing over her face before she smiles again. "I just felt a little dizzy for minute there. It's, you know―that time of the month," she says, dropping her voice a bit.

Stiles makes a face, but Scott just pats her shoulder sympathetically. "You're okay now, though?"

"Totally. Yeah, Talia helped me out, we're good. You guys know Talia, right? Talia Hale?"

"Yeah, I know her," Stiles mutters, glancing over to the water cooler where Derek's only daughter is alternating between stretching her calves and staring off into space. There's something strange about the way she's standing: a tension to her shoulders and an unnatural stillness, as though she's waiting, or listening for something. She turns her head in their direction and he looks away as casually as he can. "Anyway, Jack's sorry he couldn't come, he's just super grounded."

"Pulled out the bad cop, huh?" Scott says, and Stiles makes a face at him.

"Ha, ha, you're so clever. Let go of your offspring so she can go change, okay? Jesus, I'm starving, let's get pizza, let's go."

Melissa jogs back towards the school, laughing, as Stiles and Scott amble slowly towards the parking lot.

"Anyway," Stiles says, zipping his sweater up as the wind picks up. "I have a fun little fact for you. And when I say fun, I mean confusing and slightly vindicating, and when I say fact, I mean that the fiber analysis from L.A. came in today off our John Doe."

"Oh yeah?" Scott asks, scrolling through his messages on his phone, letting himself be guided when Stiles pulls him out of the way of a fire hydrant.

"Guess what they found?"

"What?" Scott asks distractedly, looking up from his e-mails when Stiles is silent for a few seconds. "What'd they find?"

"Wolf hair," Stiles replies, raising his eyebrows. Scott opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again, frowning.

"That can't be right."

"You'd better believe it," Stiles says heavily, hoisting himself up to sit on the hood of the Jeep. "Threw me for a loop, too."

"Damn," Scott breathes, and hops up beside him to wait.

* * *

I feel like I am struggling to capture Stiles' voice. But also I am having fun! And I hope you are too. Don't forget to favourite/review! (Happy Fridayyy)


	4. Chapter 4

This time, the call comes in just after ten.

He glares at the Deputy outside, a new guy named Greenberg who just waves at him obliviously and keeps munching on his donuts. Stiles rolls his eyes. He specifically told the guy not to bother him with anything except an emergency until after lunch, but hey, apparently being the Sheriff and having people actually listen to him is too much to ask. He sighs and picks up the phone.

"Sheriff's office, Sheriff Stilinski speaking," he says, trying to cut as much of the annoyance out of his voice as he can. As much as he complains about his job, it is an elected position, and if he's gonna be living in Beacon Hills, it's a pretty good way to ward off the tedium and pay the bills. So sometimes, it's just best to put his best foot forward and try to keep his mouth shut.

" _Sheriff Stilinski. It's Principal Keeley_." He resists the urge to slam his forehead against the table. Is it him, or does this guy sound less happy to be talking to him every time he rings him at the station? " _I'm sorry to tell you that there's been another altercation at the school involving your son._ "

Stiles throws a glance at the calendar. Is it Tuesday again already? "No kidding," he mutters distractedly, which is apparently the wrong thing to say.

" _Sheriff, while you may find this funny, I assure you it is no laughing matter._ " _No laughing matter._ Who even says shit like that anymore? " _If you're not too busy, I would appreciate it if you would come down to the school to pick him up_."

 _Not too busy?_ What aspect of the full time job does this idiot not understand? "Yes, of course, it's not funny at all, I'm sorry. I'll be there soon, thanks."

He puts the phone back in its cradle and takes a moment to try and put his desk back into some semblance of order. The photographs spread out on the table, glossy and uniformly smudged with his fingerprints, he pushes carefully into a pile, keeping them in order. The autopsy and forensics reports go back into their files, split between the Jane and the John Doe. He moves a box of old case files to get at his phone and his fingers alight on the stack of photocopies he had made yesterday morning before work.

Oh, right.

Stiles knows Jack's a smart kid, because he's _his_ kid, and because Jack Stilinski is obviously the best son anybody ever could have asked for, ever. But he's never been big on reading for fun, has never had that voracious thirst for knowledge that, in his younger days, had pushed Stiles into spontaneous all night research sessions on random topics ranging from wolf conservation in California to the history of circumcision in America. Which is why when Stiles had walked into his son's room on Monday morning and found him hunched over the computer, printed articles spread out around him and books open on the floor, he had been more than a little surprised.

"What'cha doin' there, buddy?" he'd asked, eyeing Jack's hands as they tried to surreptitiously slide a book underneath a nearby stack of papers.

"Uh, research."

"For school?"

"Yeah, for a project. Uh, a mythology project."

"That's kind of last minute of you. I mean, you literally just had like a five day weekend."

Jack had shrugged, smiling weakly. "It's not due today, I just woke up early."

"Okay, well, get outta here. School starts in ten minutes."

He'd watched his son snap his laptop closed and cram it, along with a bunch of papers and books, into his backpack, then clapped him on the shoulder on his way out. Standing at the top of the stairs, he'd waited until he had heard the Jeep pull out of the driveway before turning around and striding back into Jack's room to snoop.

Yeah, okay, so he's not the best about _respecting privacy_ or whatever, but he had been curious. And really, as he had directly contributed to the creation of not only Jack himself, but to the purchase of almost literally everything the kid owned, maybe he's entitled to the occasional snoop. It's harmless. Mostly. And while he had been expecting to find a lot of different things on his son's desk, what he hadn't been expecting to find were dozens upon dozens of printouts on _werewolves_ , of all things.

He had frowned, thumbing through them carefully, before picking a book up off the floor. _Folklore of Medieval Europe._ It had seemed innocent enough. Running his hand back over the desk, however, he had found the book that Jack had tried to hide, peeking out from under a picture of some kind of thirteenth-century tapestry. It was leather bound, worn, and clearly not from the school library.

He'd opened it, noting an inscription in French on the inside cover. _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent._ But the book had been in Latin, or maybe something even older, and the text had clearly been written and illustrated by hand. What had Jack been doing with it? And where had he even gotten it?

So Stiles had done what any impulsive and borderline obsessive law-enforcement parent would do: he'd taken it to work and photocopied it, and then slipped it back into Jack's room during lunch, leaving it exactly where he'd found it.

* * *

If Jack is in trouble, there's about a ninety-five percent chance Chris is, too, which is why Stiles pulls over to the Starbucks on his way to the high school. He finds it funny, but mostly just endearing, that Chris has only been at Beacon Hills High School for―what? Two weeks?―and they're already inseparable. They've known each other forever, of course, but the Argents (well, the Argent-Fortiers, now) had always liked to move around, and the last time they had spent any significant length of time together, they had been eight years old. _Boys_ , he thinks fondly, stepping out of the squad car and clicking the lock closed.

The Starbucks is mostly empty, and he notices her the second he steps through the door. He pretends he doesn't until he reaches the line, though, fiddling with his phone and trying to decide if he'll look more casual with his hands in his pockets or at his sides. Which is irrelevant, of course, because she doesn't even look up until he's right behind her.

"Hey," he says lightly, smiling a bit when she spins around to face him.

"Oh," Lydia says, like she had been expecting someone more interesting. "Hi." She's wrapped up in a Burberry coat, and her hair fails in soft waves to her shoulders, pinned back on one side behind her ear. Her lipstick, as always, is flawless, and briefly he wonders if he is doomed to forever be standing in front of beautiful, immaculate women while wearing head-to-toe khaki.

"Fancy meeting you here," he continues, undeterred.

"How's that? It's the only Starbucks in town," she points out, perhaps a bit more sharply than strictly necessary.

"I don't know," he says. "I just hadn't seen you around in a while. Probably since Christmas, actually, with that whole thing with the play and whatever―"

"You mean the school musical, that Natalie _starred_ in―"

"―yeah, yeah, she was great." He grins, and she presses her lips together like she's trying not to smile back. "And now we run into each other twice in the same week. It's just weird. Like, nice, is what I'm saying, but unusual."

"Okay, Stilinski," she says, taking a step away from him as the line moves forwards, and he follows.

"You know, _Ms. Martin_ ," he says, feeling oddly cheerful all of a sudden. "We're adults now."

"I noticed," she says dryly.

"And I am gainfully employed as the Sheriff, a position I attained through the popular vote."

"I know how elections work, yes. Is there a point to this?"

"The point is, this isn't high school. You don't have to pretend like you don't know me. Or that you don't like me."

"Well that part's not pretending," she shoots back, but she's smiling as she says it, without any bite.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, nodding and smiling back. "How are you?"

"Fine," she says breathily. "Just needed a pick-me-up. A reason to get out of the house."

"You're still not working?"

She hums noncommittally. "Not at the moment. Besides, I lead such a full life already," she says, rolling her eyes. "For example, today I am driving to pick up a dress for Allison's party. And then I'm taking Gucci to the vet."

"Thrilling."

"Believe me, I know. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be at work?"

Stiles sighs as they move up to the counter, his good mood plummeting. "What, is it a weekday? You're kidding, I hadn't noticed. I'm just wearing this uniform for fun. Hi, can I get a tall decaf latte and a tall medium roast? Thanks. And you're getting…?"

"A grande london fog, half-sweet, with soy milk."

They do an awkward dance where Stiles tries to pay, and then Lydia insists on paying for herself, but then she take so long getting her wallet out of her bag that he just goes for it anyway, and then she insists on paying for _something_ , so she gets them each a blueberry scone and glares at him while they wait for their drinks.

"Okay, relax, I'm sorry for trying to be polite."

"I don't need you buying me coffee."

"Okay, A, technically I didn't buy you coffee, I bought you a tea latte, and B, I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to speed it up."

"I didn't realize you were in such a hurry."

"Ease up, okay? I'm having a rough day." He leans against the counter, pushing his hands through his hair. "Jack got in another fight. Third one in three weeks."

"Oh, with Peter and Nathan?"

He frowns at her. "Don't tell me it's like, hot gossip, or something."

"No, Peter mentioned it when he was over on the weekend."

"Wait, what?" he demands, turning towards her. "Why was _Peter Hale_ at your house this weekend?"

"He's going out with Natalie," she says, like this should be completely self-evident.

"My condolences," he says, and means it.

"He's not that bad," Lydia counters. "He's actually quite charming, and he's pretty cute."

"Lydia, if I could punch a teenager in the face? One teenager? It would be him."

Something like a smile pulls on the corner of her mouth. "Say it a little louder, please. I'm sure the town at large would love to hear you threatening violence against teenagers."

"Just the one teenager, and I'm not _threatening_ anyone. I'm just saying. God, he is at the station _all the time_ and he's just so, like, smug and cocky and―well, anyway." The barista hands him the coffee, and while he's adding a drop of milk, brings out the lattes. "Hey, before I forget―I know you're good with dead languages. Is this Latin?"

He pulls out his phone, flipping to a picture he'd taken of the book from Jack's room, and she leans into him, squinting. "Sorry," she murmurs, her hair brushing his hand. "I don't have my glasses. Hm. Yeah, but it's not classical, it's old. Like, archaic."

"Damn. Okay, thanks."

"Why?" she asks, stepping away and grabbing a lid for her latte. "What is it?"

"Just a project, it's no big deal. But I have no idea how I'm gonna translate it now, though, shit."

"I know Old Latin," she says carefully, not making eye contact as she fiddles with her cup.

"Lucky you," he says, picking up his drinks. "Anyway, I gotta go," he adds, walking backwards toward the door. "Like, five minutes ago. But I guess I'll see you on Saturday, yeah?"

"Bye, Sheriff," she says, pursing her lips and waving sarcastically before pulling out what looks suspiciously like a quantum mechanics textbook and settling in to read.

* * *

"So you two have officially transcended suspension, and arrived at district-mandated counselling. Con _grat_ ulations! Tell us, how _does_ it feel?"

They're standing in the parking lot, just him and Allison and the pair of delinquents who belong to them, and whereas Jack just looks fed up, Chris looks downright mutinous.

"This time it wasn't even our _fault_ ," he says loudly. "Even Keeley admitted that, so why the hell are we being punished?"

"Don't take that tone with us," Allison admonishes smoothly. "And you're not being punished, you're being counselled."

"Are _they_ being punished?"

Stiles looks at the ground. The Hales _are_ being punished this time, but barely―a week's worth of detention is hardly fair, especially for two kids who have now started three different fights in a row. Well, that's not the official story, but Stiles would literally lose an arm before he'd believe Peter Hale over his own son. Slippery bastard. At his silence, Chris scoffs, and Jack kicks dejectedly at the pavement.

"What even happened?" He asks, tossing his jacket onto the hood of his car so he can roll up his sleeves.

"They literally just attacked me," Chris says, getting visibly worked up and jamming his fists in his pockets. "We were cutting across the basketball courts to get to bio, and they just came at us."

"Yeah, out of nowhere," Jack chimes in, his expression grave. There's a bruise forming on his cheek; Stiles' heart twinges, before he tamps down the feeling.

"They just came at you and started swinging?"

Both boys nod, and he exchanges a look with Allison. She looks furious, but not like she's angry at Chris; like it's about something bigger. "Okay," she breathes after a moment. "Get back to class. I'll see you after school."

"After counseling, you mean," Jack says, and from behind Allison, Stiles shakes his head at him. Jack usually knows better than to stick his neck out, but deep down, he's kind of got a smart mouth.

Stiles is willing to take the blame on that one.

They finish their coffees as they watch their kids jogging back across the parking lot, leaning against the hood of the squad car. "You good?" he asks her, eyeing the set of her jaw, the way her nostrils keep flaring.

"Yeah," she says. "I just. _Ugh_. What is their _problem_? The Hales, I mean."

Stiles sighs. "Right? I mean, it's not like I never got in a locker room fight, or anything, but…"

"But this is ridiculous."

"Yeah. Three weeks in a row. I'm starting to think I should just schedule Tuesday mornings off. It'd be more efficient."

She snorts, smiling like she can't help it, before her face falls again. "It's just―I remember what it was like. Being a teenager, being that age and moving around all the time, it's already so _hard_. It's more than hard enough without the biggest, baddest _lacrosse_ star or whoever making it his personal business to wreck you every―every Tuesday." She lets out a humourless laugh.

"I mean, I wouldn't know. I basically moved a grand total of two times in my life―away from Beacon Hills, and then back."

"Sometimes it was fun, and exciting, and whatever. But sometimes it was just hard. And Beacon Hills, you know, I _loved_ it here. It was my favourite place I ever lived. Not as cool as San Francisco, obviously, but you know, between Lydia, and Scott, and―and Isaac and everything…" He glances over at her. Is it his imagination, or are her cheeks a little bit flushed? "I just have a lot of really great memories from then. I was hoping he would love it too." She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I just wish he was having an easier time, you know?"

"Yeah." The thing about Allison is that even now, when she's being open and vulnerable and unsure, underneath it all, Stiles can see the steel. It has always been one of the most beautiful things about her, and, after all these years, is still one of the most frightening. "Anyway," she says, shaking her head as though shaking off her thoughts. "Have you talked to Scott lately?"

He frowns at her. "Have I―have I talked to Scott lately? What does that even mean?"

She chuckles. "Yeah, okay, stupid question. I was just wondering―well, has he mentioned Saturday to you?"

"No," he says. "Why?"

"Oh, no real reason, I just wanted to know if he was coming. He said he wasn't sure he could make it, but―it would just be really nice to have him there."

"Get the band back together."

"Exactly. And just, you know… see him. I just worry―" She stops, biting her lip and looking away from him.

"What?" he asks softly, leaning around to try and catch her eye.

"Is he―has he mentioned being, like, angry with me, or something? Actually, no, I'm probably just being paranoid. But I just can't shake the feeling that… that he's maybe avoiding me?"

"Look, Allison," he says, bringing a hand up to rub at her back. "I've known Scott for basically my entire life, and trust me on this: there is nothing you could say or do that would ever make him that angry with you. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay, thanks," she says, smiling a wobbly smile. "God, I'm being ridiculous. I feel like I'm sixteen again."

"So I'm not the only one having flashbacks to sophomore year, then," he says, and flashes a grin at her. "And you're not being ridiculous. It's okay to worry about stupid things sometimes."

"Thanks, Stiles," she says, squeezing him in a one-armed hug before stepping away from his car towards her own. "I'll you on Saturday, then, okay?"

"Wild horses," he says, and salutes her, just to see her smile again.

* * *

On his way back to the station, Sheriff Stilinski does something he hasn't done in a long time: he stops at a crafts store to buy three different colours of yarn―red, yellow, and green―as well as a set of corkboards, a pack of thumbtacks, and, just to be on the safe side, a new package of permanent markers.

When he passes by Greenberg's desk, the idiot asks him if he's taking up knitting, but he ignores him; and after asking Hale for an update on the Witter break-in (the guy has a knack for solving burglaries), he shuts himself into his office, dumping his supplies onto a chair.

The cork boards go up first; he lines them up to the right of his desk, where they're not visible to everyone in the bullpen. He throws his jacket across the back of his chair, pulls the blinds down on the windows to his office, and swallows an Adderall. Then, he gets to work.

On February 20th, a woman's body had been found by a jogger. He tacks the picture onto the corner of one of the boards, and puts up another one next to it which shows the details of her tattoo. Leaping over to his desk, he rifles frantically through the drawers, coming up with a small pad of notepaper. Uncapping a marker, he scrawls in red: _February 26th - Body disappears, Hospital,_ and tacks it below the photographs. He pins photos of the man onto the next board, labelling them with ' _March 2nd_ '. He prints a map of the preserve, and marks the spot where each body had been found, pinning it onto the board between the two sets of photos. He write out the contacts for the jogger who had found the woman and the cyclist who had found the man, and sticks them below the appropriate photographs.

He steps back, untucking his shirt and pushing his sleeves up while he surveys his work, then starts opening up their files. He pulls out the John Doe's crime scene analysis, in which the forensics team had expressed certainty about it being an animal attack, but confusion about the size and subsequent trajectory of the animal. He pins it to the board, highlighting the words 'animal attack', 'mountain lion', and 'unclear tracks'. He prints out a picture of a mountain lion, because why not, and puts it up as well, letting it add a bit of glamour to the gory crime scene photographs. Then he grabs the fiber analysis, circles the words 'wolf hair', and tacks that on next to the forensics report.

He feels a connection nagging at him, but can't figure out what it is until he's flipping through Jane Doe's file and comes across _her_ fiber analysis. It's stuck to the back of the coroner's report, and when he peels them apart, he has to stop for a moment and stare. There it is, plain as day: _wolf hair._ He circles that too, slowly, striding up to the wall and putting that paper in place as well.

He opens the door and asks Riley to bring him a copy of Scott's accident report; she does him one better and brings him an orange juice and a bagel as well, and he bites into it furiously as he puts the report on the wall next to the mountain lion. Then he goes through the coroner's report for the Jane Doe and lists all the possible murder weapons one by one, the words branching out next to her body.

Finally, two hours later, Stiles pulls out the red string.

The process is slow going, although it's expedited by the fact that he's basically only having to use one colour. He threads the Jane Doe's body through to the morgue, and across onto various murder weapons. He pins her system to the appropriate spot on the map, and then does the same for the John Doe, two sprawling webs emerging slowly from two spots on the black and white outline of the preserve. He reaches for the green yarn to connect the mountain lion to the man, but then changes his mind, grabbing yellow instead. When he stands back, finally, the mind map is organized and thorough; but more than that, it is glaringly, obviously missing something.

For some reason, he's almost afraid to draw attention to it.

As though in a trance, he takes the red yarn and stretches it from one fiber analysis to another, setting the pins right below the words 'wolf'. He grabs a paper and puts it right in the middle of the thread, the tenuous connection between two cases that nobody will accept might be related. On it, he writes in bold letters and underlines: _There are no wolves in California._

* * *

" _Wait―what did she say? Like, what were her exact words?_ "

"Jesus, Scott, I don't know, I'm not an answering machine. Basically, she thinks you're mad at her."

" _What? Why would she think that?"_

"Oh, gee, I dunno, maybe it has something to do with the way you've been _avoiding her ever since she moved here_."

" _So? That's like, two weeks._ "

"You're an idiot."

" _I'm surprised she even noticed._ "

"Well, she did, congratulations. So can you two kiss and make up already?"

" _We're not kissing, and anyway, there's nothing to make up over, we're not fighting._ "

"Why not?"

" _Why aren't we fighting?_ "

Stiles sighs, leaning forward and rubbing at his temples. "Scott, I'm going to kill you."

" _I don't know what you want me to say._ "

"For starters, you could tell me you've RSVPed to the party on Saturday." On the other end of the line, Scott is silent. "Come on, you've got to be kidding me. Scott, I just told you she thinks you _hate_ her and you're still not going? It's just a stupid housewarming party. You can be in and out in like, half an hour."

" _I don't know if it's a good idea._ "

"Well, not going is _definitely_ a bad idea, and besides, I need a date, which means you're coming."

" _Hey, aren't you at work? Shouldn't you be, like, working?_ "

"Don't change the subject. And besides, I'm just packing up, I'm done for the day." He presses the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he tries to straighten his desk. Why is it that his office always looks like a hurricane just swept through? "So you're not getting off that easy. Come on. Can you be a normal human being, for once, please?"

Scott sighs. Faintly, he hears shouting. He looks up, straining to hear over the general commotion of the station. It's a woman, definitely, yelling― _Hale_?

"Scotty? Something weird is happening. I'll call you back."

He bolts out from his chair as he hangs up the phone, ramming his hip into the corner of the desk in his haste to get to the door, and wrenches it open, blinds swinging wildly. There's a blonde woman backing into the bullpen, fighting off Deputy Rodriguez's grip, wearing a leather jacket and heels and yelling for Hale at the top of her lungs.

"Ma'am, you _really_ need to calm down―"

"Come on, sweetie, I know you work here. Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Her bag swings from her shoulder as she steps out of Riley's way and sends a stack of folders streaking through the air, sheets of paper flying everywhere. In the midst of the commotion, Hale himself appears, jogging in from the front entrance, Deputy Greenberg hot on his heels.

"The hell is going on here?" Stiles asks, stunned, but nobody hears him as the woman lets out a shriek of laughter and spins around. Her hair whips across her face, and he only sees it for a moment, but he could swear she looks exactly like…

"Kate?" Hale says incredulously, stopping in his tracks. _Kate Argent_? Chris had mentioned her coming to visit, now that he thinks about it, but what the hell is she doing here?

"Derek!" she cries delightedly, shoving Riley away from her and marching towards him. "How nice of you to show up!" She reaches him and pauses for an instant, before grabbing him by the shoulders and kneeing him solidly in the abdomen. The station explodes with noise.

"Ma'am, we are going to have to ask you to cease and desist!"

"That's battery on a police officer!"

"How do you like _that_ , Hale?"

Rodriguez and Miller leap forward to grab her arms, dragging her backwards, sliding around on the papers strewn across the ground as she fights them on every step. Stiles edges around the room, eyeing Kate Argent, laughing and baring her teeth, and Derek, who's holding a hand to his stomach like it's an afterthought and staring at her warily. He snaps into action.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands, striding forward to stand between the two of them. "This is a police station, are you crazy?"

"Ooh," she coos, looking him up and down. "Aren't you tough? You know, crazy's not a very PC term these days." She's still wriggling, trying to get her arms free, and Riley steps forward to get a hand around each of her biceps. "Why don't you ask _him_ what I'm doing here?"

Stiles glances back at Derek, who frowns at him, shaking his head in confusion.

"Or maybe you should ask his _idiot_ nephew." Her smile turns to a scowl, and she lunges forward, Riley pushing her back as Rodriguez and Miller pull on her arms. "Hale, you tell that son of a bitch if he lays a finger on my cousin again, he'll regret he was ever _born_."

"I'll take it under advisement," Derek says flatly, and Stiles gapes at her.

"Unbelievable. That's what this is about? You just _assaulted a police officer_."

"What, don't tell me you're not even a little bit mad, _Stilinski_ ," she says, hissing his name. "Those little delinquents, walking around like the own the place, thinking they can do whatever they want, to whoever they want. Messing with your son. They should leave _normal_ people alone, if they know what's good for them," she adds, craning her neck to glare at Derek over Stiles' shoulder.

"Yep, and this is definitely the way to deal with that problem, good thinking." He looks over at Rodriguez. "Why don't you take her somewhere she can cool off, yeah? And maybe think about the wisdom of walking into a police station and threatening bodily harm against minors."

"Look at me, Hale," she snarls, as they wrangle her across the room and off towards the jail cells. " _Look at me_! You'll control that monster if you know what's good for you. You hear me?"

A door clangs shut, and her shrieks are muffled. Stiles sighs, taking in the carnage and the wide-eyed stares of his deputies. "Okay, that's it, get back to work. Or, I guess, packing up, whatever, shift's about to change. Greenberg? Clean this shit up. Hale? Come with me."

He leads him into his office, letting his step through first before shutting the door behind them. "You okay?"

"What?" he asks, frowning in confusion before bringing his hand up to his stomach. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I've had worse."

"Course you have," Stiles says crankily, already irritated. "Seriously, you have any idea what that was about?"

"None," the man answers, shaking his head slowly and frowning. "I barely even know her."

"Good, because you are way too old for her, and she's way too crazy. Even for you."

" _What?_ "

"Nothing, sorry." He crosses around his desk and lets himself fall into his chair, leaning his elbow against the desk and running his hands over his face. "Goddammit, can't things be normal around here for like, a minute? Is that too much to ask?"

Hale, predictably, says nothing, and Stiles heaves a sigh.

"Okay. Now, I have to ask you, did you want to pursue legal action? Vis a vis, like, the battery, and the threats, and the disruption, and whatever?"

"No," Hale replies plainly, his face impassive.

"Didn't think you would. Alright, great, I'm gonna call the Argents then, have them pick her up. What we should be doing, actually, is putting the fear of god in her over in lock-up, but I'm exhausted. We can just hope Laurent yells at her for like a million hours and call it a day. Hey, what are you doing?" He asks sharply, looking up suddenly and finding Hale by the far wall, staring at the evidence pinned to the cork boards.

"Nice strings," Hale says, turning to look at him over his shoulder and offering something that looks like the beginning of a smirk.

"Okay, that's it, get out."

* * *

When he gets home, Jack's on the couch, watching _Friends_ reruns and eating a pop-tart.

"Thank you," he says, snatching the rest of it out of his hands and cramming it in his mouth, collapsing onto the couch and closing his eyes while he chews it. It tastes like sugar and heart disease, and basically just really hits the spot.

"Hey," Jack protests halfheartedly, but he budges over to make more room and hands Stiles a pillow to lean against.

"Thanks," he says slowly, getting comfortable before remembering his surroundings. "Hey, let me look at you."

The laugh track on the tv sounds as he switches on a lamp and reaches for his son, grabbing him gently by the chin and turning his head to look at the bruises on the side of his face. He skims his fingers over them gently, tracing the red and purple on his temple and beneath his eye. He glances down and sees that his hands are scratched, too, and oh my god, somebody did this to his kid. His only son, who'd just been minding his own business, trying to get to class, when some lunatic upperclassmen had come out of nowhere and bashed his head into the asphalt.

"Hey," Jack says, catching sight of his expression. "Dad. It's okay."

"It's not. No, it's not. Jesus Christ, Jack, what did they do to you? What―why―?"

"Dad?" Jack asks, concerned, as Stiles tries to calm his breathing, his heart thundering in his chest. "Are you okay? Hey, calm down."

"Yeah," Stiles chokes out, forcing himself to breathe normally. "Yeah, sorry, I'm fine. I'm a little strung out. Caffeine."

"Uh huh," Jack says doubtfully.

"Seriously, it was just a really long day."

"You want, like, tea, or something?"

"Thanks," he says, trying to smile reassuringly. "But I don't trust you not to burn the house down."

"I can make _tea_ ," Jack says, pretending to be offended. "You just pour the water straight into the toaster, right?"

Stiles snorts, and then he pulls him into a ferocious hug, clutching his sweater in one hand and the back of his head in the other, pressing his face into his shoulder. He feels Jack's hands against his shoulder blades, big and clumsy, and he gives him one last squeeze before pulling away to press their foreheads together for a moment.

"I love you a lot," he says quietly.

"I know," Jack murmurs back.

"So you have to stop letting idiots beat you up, okay? It's bad for my heart. You know heart disease runs in the family."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he says, pulling away and pinching his ear. "Just be careful."

"Will you toast me another pop-tart?" Jack asks as Stiles settles back in, pulling a checkered blanket over himself.

"Uh, no."

"You stole mine."

"Those things will literally kill you, stop buying them."

"They're so good, though."

"What episode is this?"

"Uh, the one where no one's ready?"

"Oh, man, I love that one. Okay, shush, the commercials are over."

He has to be up early in the morning, and so does Jack, and maybe it's a bad idea to watch television together for another two hours; but, Stiles thinks, getting up to make popcorn, at the moment, there's really nothing else he'd rather be doing.

* * *

Don't forget to review!


	5. Chapter 5

I struggle a lot with this chapter, and I'm still not super satisfied, but the story must go on! And frankly I'm sick of staring at it.

So enjoy what little development there is. Cheers!

* * *

So he and Deputy Hale aren't exactly the best of friends, or anything, but seriously, the guy's been acting weird for weeks.

Like, yeah, he's model-handsome, and he's like, a good guy (or at least a kind of okay guy), and he looks about twelve years old when he smiles (not that he ever does—it's mostly just a lot of glowering). But he's also rude and quite frankly, abrasive, and there's always this edge to his voice that says clearly: 'Yeah, I'm gonna do what you told me to do, but only because I feel like it, and don't expect me to make a habit of it.' One thing he is, though, is a professional—a by-the-book cop who clocks in and out on the hour, and has the rulebook memorized back to front.

Which is why Stiles is at a complete loss to explain why Deputy Hale is climbing into his car right now.

"Uh," he says, squinting. "What are you doing?"

"We're going on patrol," he replies, easing into his seat, like that answers everything.

"No," Stiles says slowly, trying to decide whether to make a confused or an annoyed expression and landing somewhere in between. "I'm going on patrol. By myself."

"Well, I'll just come with you then," Derek replies, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You were supposed to be off half an hour ago."

"Call it pro bono."

"Hale, get out of my car."

Instead, he buckles his seatbelt, settling in and clapping his hands onto his knees like he didn't hear him. "Well? Let's go."

Stiles gapes at him, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before giving up and starting the car. There's only so many ways you can tell a guy to get out of your vehicle. And, well, if he wants to spend a couple of hours cruising around Beacon Hills and trawling for traffic violators for no pay, well, that's not Stiles' problem.

Except that it is, because as unpleasant as Derek usually is, the last few weeks he's been ever worse. Stiles doesn't know if all the death has him shaken up or what, only lately he's been not just aggressive, but almost—vicious.

Like right now, for example:

"Did you not see the sign? Or do you think the rules just don't apply to you?"

"I said I'm sorry, okay, Jesus. Can you just write me the ticket?"

"You're sorry? _Sorry?_ What's _sorry_ going to get you when you've killed someone, huh?"

Chris Argent just stares, eyebrows drawn and jaw set, blinking up at Derek from the driver's side window like he can't quite believe what's going on. Stiles can't either, standing a couple feet back, watching the unfolding harassment lawsuit with a growing sense of irritation.

"I don't understand the question," Chris says finally, and Derek scoffs, hitting his hand against the roof of the car with a bang. Chris doesn't even flinch, just stares at him with a hard look in his eyes. In fact, he kind of looks like he's sizing him up, which Stiles takes as his cue to step in.

"Okay, Hale, chill out." Derek turns to him and glares, but Stiles muscles him away from Chris's car anyway, planting his own hand on the roof and leaning down. "Look," he says conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "I don't want to write you a speeding ticket, because I'd rather not be complicit in filicide."

Chris blinks at him and Stiles sighs, shifting his weight.

"You're in enough trouble with your parents as it is and I don't want them to kill you," he says quickly. "But if you don't want speeding tickets, you need to, you know, _not speed_. It's Wednesday. Nothing cool and important is even happening."

A smile pulls at the corner of Chris's mouth, and Stiles winks at him. "So I'm gonna let you off with a warning this time, okay? But if I catch you again, your dad's gonna have to hear about it." He pauses, frowning. "Just so we're clear, the moral of the story isn't 'don't get caught', it's 'drive safely'. We good?"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sheriff."

"Don't mention it. Where are you going, anyway?"

"I'm picking Jack up."

"Why do I even ask?" he says, rolling his eyes. "Alright, don't get too crazy."

He waits until Chris's taillights have disappeared into the mist before rounding on Derek. "What was that?"

"He was speeding," Derek grinds out, his mouth pulling into a frown.

"Yeah, he was going like _ten miles_ over the speed limit. Which deserves a warning, sure, but not the fucking fifth degree."

And yeah, maybe he's breathing too hard, and maybe he's a little too wound up, gearing up for a fight, but Derek isn't even listening to him. He's looking just past his shoulder, his head cocked to the side, like he's listening for something.

"Well?" he demands, planting his feet apart and his hands on his hips.

"Do you hear that?" Derek asks instead, and Stiles pauses, straining his ears.

"No. What?"

"It's the radio," Derek says, looking towards the car. "There's been a break-in."

* * *

When they pull up to the house, Lydia's sitting on the front steps, hugging her knees and clutching her phone. He runs out of the car, not even bothering to close the door, and falls to his knees in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"No—I mean, yeah—I'm fine. I'm fine."

He lets out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, she's shaking his hands off, running her fingers under her eyes to rub at the mascara streaked down her cheeks.

"Okay, that's what's important," he says awkwardly, sitting back on his heels. He hears Derek slam the car doors closed and march up the driveway, his boots thudding steadily against the asphalt.

"What happened?" he says flatly, coming up to stand beside them.

"How about we get her inside first," Stiles counters, shooting Derek a warning look over his shoulder. He helps Lydia to her feet and follows her into her house, his hand between her shoulder blades. She looks like the heroine from some forgotten Hitchcock movie: her eyes smudged with makeup, her hair falling out of its curls, a silk robe fluttering behind her. He guides her into the gleaming kitchen and flicks on the light over the stove before turning to the sink to pour her a glass of water. Derek shuts the front door behind him, taking his time walking through the house, frowning and looking around.

She sits down at the kitchen table, blue glass and stainless steel, and he sits down next to her, pushing out his chair and leaning onto his elbows. The glass sits between them, expensive and angular, and she wraps her hand around it, spinning it slowly on the surface of the table.

"What happened, Lydia?" he asks finally, after she's taken a sip.

"I was in bed," she says slowly, licking her lips. "I was reading. And…the phone rang." Her voice is soft, cracking in the middles of sentences. "So I picked it up. I thought it would be Natalie, she's—she's at her friend's house."

She pauses, pressing her lips together, her forehead creasing. Behind her, Derek checks the lock on the door to the backyard before looking up and shaking his head.

"Who was on the phone?"

"I—" Her voice breaks. "I don't know."

"What did they say?" he presses softly. Derek back out of the room, frowning, and Stiles hears him going up the stairs, his steps echoing on the hardwood.

"I don't remember—exactly. But it sounded like a woman, saying something about getting what she deserved. And then—'It was only a matter of time. Did you really think you were safe?' I asked who it was, but there was no answer. So I hung up."

He frowns, and she takes another sip of water. Her eyes are wide, almost vacant; she's looking right at him, but it's like she can't even see him. "I got back in bed," she continues slowly. "And then I head noises."

"What did you hear?" he breathes, leaning forward and squeezing the fingers of his left hand in his right. She licks her lips, shaking her head slowly. "Lydia, what did you hear?"

"A crash," she says softly. "Like something had been broken, like glass. Then I heard footsteps, like people were running around downstairs." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "There was shouting, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. So I locked the door and called nine-one-one."

"Did you hear them leave?"

"I yelled that I'd called the police, and there was this noise…it was so loud. Like an engine. And I was scared, and—I screamed. And then I couldn't hear anything anymore."

"They left after you told them you called the police?"

"I couldn't hear them anymore," she repeats, her mouth barely moving as she forms the words. Stiles shifts back in his seat, glancing around nervously. He can hear Derek coming back down the stairs and moving off down the hall.

"Okay," he says finally. "Do you wanna sit down or something? And we'll take a look around?"

She doesn't even acknowledge him, doesn't even point out that she's _already sitting down, genius_ , just allows herself to be led into a plush living room, where he guides her into an armchair and wraps a blanket around her shoulders. "I'll just be a minute," he says, hands twitching at his sides, before turning around and heading back through the kitchen.

He looks around, rubbing a hand across his jaw. Lydia had heard glass shattering, or at the very least, something breaking; but the kitchen and living room look untouched. He looks over the windows, checking the locks—all of them are locked from the inside. He moves down the hallway, eyes peeled, but Lydia's house is spotless, every surface gleaming, every object in place. Reaching a bathroom at the end, he finds Derek, who has his hand on the windowsill and his face turned upwards.

"Did you look upstairs?" he asks, casting his eyes about the room. Nothing out of place here either.

"Yeah."

"Nothing?"

Derek nods, his expression resigned. Stiles lets out a heavy sigh, leaning against the wall.

"Well, shit," he breathes. "What now?"

"We tell her she imagined it and move on."

"Are you joking? We can't just say that, it makes her sound crazy."

"She is," Derek says flatly, raising an eyebrow, and Stiles jams his hands in his pockets to stop himself from punching him. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, then twenty, before stepping out of the bathroom and marching back down the hallway.

"Hey, Lydia," he says gently. She barely reacts, except for her eyes sliding slowly towards him. She's huddled in the armchair, silhouetted against the window, looking pale and shaken and very, very small. "We didn't find anything."

"I heard it," she croaks, her eyebrows drawing together as Derek appears from the kitchen as well.

"I know you did, but—"

"No one was here," Derek says firmly, and Stiles snaps.

"Hale, do a perimeter check, would you?"

"But—"

"Yeah, I heard you, okay? Now do it."

Derek levels a steely look at him, his eyes glinting in the half light, before turning around and stalking out the back door. Stiles waits until he hears the screen door snap shut before turning back to Lydia. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, staring somewhere just past his shoulder. He fumbles to turn on a nearby lamp, reaching for a chain before realizing it's a switch, and soon the room is bathed in soft yellow light, deep shadows forming in the corners of the ceiling. Lydia doesn't react. He walks towards her slowly, lowering himself onto an ottoman across from her.

"Lydia?"

She doesn't respond for a long time, breathing deeply and visibly trying not to cry. Finally, so softly that he might have missed it if he hadn't been waiting for it, she whispers: "I heard them."

"I believe you," he says firmly. "Lydia, I believe you."

"Nobody else does," she murmurs, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Nobody ever does."

"Hey," he says gently, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "That's not true."

"They think I'm crazy," she breathes, her voice dry and broken, and something deep inside him coils tight.

"Lydia, nothing you can say will make me think you're crazy," he says, tense and worried and painfully earnest, and she blinks, finally focusing her eyes onto his.

"Thank you," she says, and seems to come back to herself. "Thank you, Sheriff. Sorry to have wasted your time."

He leans back hesitantly, frowning at her. _You didn_ _'t waste my time_ , he tries to say, but she's already out of the armchair, talking over him.

"It must have been a dream. How embarrassing, honestly, calling the police so late over absolutely nothing." She talks up a whirlwind, brushing her hands through her hair, sliding her feet into slippers, and before he knows what's happened, she's ushered him outside and he's standing on the steps dumbly as she waves at them from the doorway and call 'goodnight, officers!'. The door closes with a bang and a click, and then it's just him and Hale, blinking up at the dark, paneled wood.

"That was fun," Derek says sarcastically, and Stiles stumbles down the steps, shouldering past him in annoyance and stalking back to the car. Derek, predictably, stays hot on his heels. "No, seriously. We should do it again sometime."

"This is your _job_ , try showing a little more tact."

"Oh, because you were all professionalism. Yeah, I regularly go through citizen's cupboards, and wrap them up in blankets, and stare deeply into their eyes—"

"Shut up."

"Oh, I'm sorry, have I touched a nerve?"

" _What the hell is wrong with you_?" Stiles yells, whirling around to face him. He's standing by the door, his hand on the handle, staring Derek down across the roof of the cruiser. "No, seriously, _what_?" He is met with stony silence as Derek's face contracts into a hard, unreadable expression. "Literally, _go home_. Nobody made you come here. In fact, I'm _ordering_ you to leave. Go home. Cool off."

"You shouldn't go on patrol by yourself," Derek grits out. He's tense, his shoulders rigid, his arms held apart from his sides, and Stiles shifts his weight, rubbing his hand across his mouth in annoyance.

"I'm the _Sheriff_. I can go on patrol by myself, Jesus, it's a Wednesday, Derek, and I don't know what you're suddenly so afraid of, but I do this all the time. There _is no danger_. I don't know if you've noticed, but we live in Beacon Hills, not Los Angeles, okay, so unless I get mauled by a cougar tonight—a cougar which would have to first break into my car, by the way—I think I'm gonna be fine."

"Someone is running around cutting people in half."

"I noticed," Stiles bites back acidly. "But so what? That wouldn't be so bad, right? You might even get a promotion out of it."

A muscle in Derek's jaw jumps as he turns away, visibly pulling himself together. Stiles takes the opportunity to wrench the car door open and throw himself into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine comes to life with a roar, the headlights flaring against the wall of Lydia's house. He sits in silence, gripping the steering wheel and fuming, until finally Derek opens his own door and lowers himself into the passenger seat, doing up his seatbelt and crossing his arms.

"I'm taking you home," Stiles grits out, sparing him a glance out of the corner of his eye.

"Fine," Derek replies, staring straight ahead. Stiles rolls his eyes and shifts the car into Drive.

* * *

As it happens, they don't make it that far.

" _We've got a ten fifty-four at the high school_ ," Dispatch had said, which does not at all prepare him for what he finds when he gets there. By the time he and Derek pull up, Rodriguez and Illych have already taped the school bus off. Lights from the cruisers and an ambulance flash in the dark. Paramedics are on the scene. Stiles has never considered a yellow school bus a likely setting for a gruesome animal attack, but, he thinks, pulling plastic covers onto his shoes and stepping up the metal stairs, Beacon Hills certainly never fails to surprise.

The scene inside can only be described as gruesome. There's blood smeared all along the length of the walkway, stuck with stuffing torn from shredded seats; bits of—oh, god, _innards_ —splattered across the windows; and a pair of bloody hand prints pressed against the rear door, right above the victim.

The paramedics are superfluous; it's a dead man if Stiles has ever seen one.

He stumbles off the bus, trying not to retch in front of half the town's emergency services, and presses a hand against his forehead, breathing hard. This cannot be happening. There's no way. This is _not_ what he signed up for.

"You okay, Sheriff?" Illych asks, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles nods, staring at the tarmac. "Okay. There's something else you should know about."

He follows the Deputy around the bus, past the paramedics and Riley and Greenberg, who have just arrived, and tries to scrub the sight of blood and gore from his mind. It's already been a long goddamn night, the panic he'd felt driving to Lydia's and the anger he feels against Hale's insane behaviour wearing on his nerves, and when he rounds the corner of the bus and sees who's lurking there, he wants, just for a moment, to scream.

"Come _on_ ," he says, the words flying out of his mouth. "Jack, what the hell are you doing here?"

Jack turns around guiltily. He's standing with Chris, Melissa, _Talia Hale_ and—is that Alan Deaton? He hears footsteps, and suddenly Derek is next to him, taking in the situation and looking incensed. "Talia," he says sharply. "Get over here. _Now_."

Talia trudges over to her dad, who takes her by the arm and hauls her away from the group, off to the other side of the parking lot. Illych shifts awkwardly, looking as though he doesn't know what to do with himself, and Stiles sends him back to deal with the paramedics before rounding on his son. "What are you doing here?" he demands again, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "What _possible_ reason could you have for being here right now?" He shifts his stance to look around him, glaring at the other kids, standing apart, as though maybe if they don't get within arm's reach, he won't notice them. "Don't think any of you are off the hook, either," he adds, jabbing a finger at them pointedly. As if dealing with an imaginary break-in, a mutinous Deputy, a homicidal mountain lion and a dead man in a school bus isn't enough, he now has to talk to three different sets of parents about their child's questionable nighttime wanderings. He can feel his head starting to throb, a sharp pain building behind his left eye, and rubs at his forehead, narrowing his eyes at the teenagers staring nervously back at him.

"We're sorry," Melissa mutters, and he puts his hands on his hips.

"Okay, thank you, that's great, but it doesn't answer my question, which is: why are you at a crime scene in the middle of the night? On a _school_ night?"

"Crime scene?" Chris asks pointedly, and Stiles doesn't bother hiding his annoyance.

"Crime scene, death scene, horror movie set, _whatever_. What are you now, ambulance chasers?"

"No," Jack replies, a bit petulantly.

"Then what?"

They're silent, blinking back at him like deer caught in headlights.

"You realize you're witnesses now, right? We're gonna need statements from you. All of you. So if you've suddenly forgotten how you got here, I suggest you start remembering. Greenberg?" he calls over his shoulder, and the guy appears at a jog. "Take statements. Jack, you come with me."

He walks off in the other direction, not checking to see if Jack is following him, and stops when he reaches the school, pausing for a minute to lean his head against the brick wall. "Dad?" Jack asks hesitantly. Stiles breathes deep, counts up to ten and back again, and turns around, rubbing at his jaw.

"Okay," he says. "You need to be real with me right now. Did you see what happened to that guy?"

"No," Jack says earnestly, his eyebrows drawn, his eyes wide.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, dad, we were just messing around. We didn't see anything."

"Hear anything?"

"No."

"You swear?"

"Yeah. Yeah, dad."

Stiles stares at him, taking in the defiant set of his shoulders, the brightness in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. "Why are you here?"

Jack shifts, pushing his hands into his pockets. "It was just a spur of the moment thing. I was with Jack, Melissa was with Talia, we decided to meet up."

"And that Deaton kid?"

"Oh, he was, uh—he was with Melissa and Talia," Jack says uncomfortably, and Stiles catches the whiff of a lie.

"Alan's hanging out with Melissa now?" he says disbelievingly, and Jack swallows.

"Uh, no. Talia. They're both freshmen, you know, they hang out."

"Right," Stiles says slowly, his eyes drifting over to where Derek is shouting something at his daughter. She's staring at the ground, her shoulders hunched, her fists clenched, braced against the tirade. "What are you hanging out with Talia Hale for, anyway?"

"What?"

"Nevermind," he sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Just—just go home, okay? I'll see you tomorrow. I have to—yeah. Just, grab your friends and get out of here."

He watches Jack, Melissa, Talia and Alan pile into Chris's car, and sees the way Derek watches them driving away, looking livid. And yet another thing he has to contend with—Derek Hale's apparent resentment of Chris Argent. But, he thinks, turning back towards the bus, first thing is first. He scrubs his hands over his face, digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes, and takes a deep breath, before striding back towards the other officers on the scene. He has a dead body to deal with.

* * *

Thanks for reading, amigos. Don't forget to review!


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